


who tells your story

by leslie (gorgonlovebot)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Multi, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgonlovebot/pseuds/leslie
Summary: Theodosia Burr in the aftermath of it all, building herself up from the wreckage, because she was nothing but the pure resilience and brilliance of someone who, unhindered, would take this world by storm.
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Aaron Burr & Theodosia Burr Alston, Jonathan Bellamy/Aaron Burr, Theodosia Burr Alston & Alexander Hamilton, Theodosia Burr Alston & Angelica Hamilton
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	who tells your story

**Author's Note:**

> the character death isn't graphic, but there are mentions of blood and death, suitable of a duelfic. a lot of liberties were taken for the sake of plot (i.e theo didn't get married) but other than that most things remained the same. all historical inaccuracies are probably because I am an actual disaster of a human being.

The news came late, in the form of your father half-unconscious, feverish, dying.

Men rushed in and out the house, voices hushed and incessant, intrusive. Your mouth tasted like ashes. Your fists curled and uncurled, clipped nails digging into the meat of your palms. You felt like you were drifting away; the slight pain kept you grounded. Your mind was spinning. Thoughts swirled in your head like a hurricane as you ran into his room after the men carrying him, all the _how’_ s and the _why_ ’s and _goddamnit Papa please—_

Your father coughed. There was blood on his lips, in the corner of his mouth. His chest heaved; you winced at the pain he must be feeling. 

You remembered that letter he had written, years ago and so far away: _All pain and torture will mean nothing to me if that guarantees you safe_. You thought he was being dramatic, he always was; but now you would do the very same, if not twelvefold, to save him from this torment. 

But there was no choices, no bargains to be made, and here you stood, dumbstruck, screaming and shivering and silent. Helpless.

The doctor stood up from his chair next to the bed. He made his way out the door, in his wake a shake of the head and a solemn gaze that would be embedded into the back of your eyelids until the day of the final Judgement. Your throat constricted, but you held back tears. Papa never liked showing his weaknesses, and you did not, either.

He opened his eyes with great difficulty as you stepped towards the bed. He tried to smile at you, but it turned into a grimace instead. Now that you noticed it, there were white bandages stained red wrapping around his middle. You averted your gaze, making an effort to ignore that— _mild inconvenience_ , he might use the words, if he had the strength to make such a joke—and focus on his face.

His lips moved, but no words were heard. You knelt beside his bed, your hands seizing and gripping his left hand and clutching at it like a lifeline. 

There was another cough, and a bit of blood trickled down his cheek. You dabbled it away with your handkerchief. He tried to speak again, and succeeded.

“You have always looked like your mother.”

You nodded. Tears pricked at your eyes.

“You resemble her in many ways, darling dearest. You are empathic, compassionate and kind. Such fortune that you don’t take after your indecisive, insidious father, right?” He laughs quietly at this, and your grip on his hand becomes stronger. Only fools ran their mouths on your father like that, your father who worked and loved and empowered and enlightened you. He who had given you his everything, an extraordinary education, a delightful correspondence throughout your adolescence. 

He who was ambitious and relentless and thoughtful, in his own quiet, unassuming way. He who had always been burdened by an enormous legacy to carry—you were no fool, you had heard those who gossiped and who laughed behind their cupped hands. You heard his political enemies and colleagues. 

They knew _nothing_ of this man. They would never understand him.

“Papa, it is me who is blessed to be birthed your daughter, to be brought up by you and to study after you. People—”

“People are right in some ways, Theodosia.” He never used your full name; but right now he did and you trembled. “In my life, I have made mistakes. I am neither inherently unflawed nor absolutely virtueless. None is. But, promise me—”

“Yes, Papa—”

“—that you will not see my decision today as one. It is my choice to do so, and I did so, fully aware of the consequences.” He was rasping now, almost unintelligibly. “Am I heard?”

Tears were streaming down your face, but you paid them no heed. “Yes, I promise.”

“And, accept what life offers with grace, and always strive for the better.” He smiled, only to be interrupted again by a racking cough. Your throat was dry, and you tried to muffle a sob with the cuff of your sleeve. It didn’t work: your whole body shook with every hiccup and every sharp inhale.

His hand twitched, and he raised his arm with great difficulty. You looked up, attempting to stop him from moving too much, but you stopped short when his hand landed on your head and started to stroke your hair, slowly and painfully. 

“There—there are letters. In my study. I penned them to—“ He paused for a painstaking breath, “—for _him_.” Your insides lurched angrily, but you nodded anyway. “One for you, too. Never—never have written such a thing. Only now do I—do I understand him, and me then. We—we were both ru—running out of time.” He laughed quietly to himself. “The Lord gave him some more. Re—reasonable choice.”

You squeezed his hand, perhaps with more force than strictly necessary. “No, Papa, listen to me—you _will_ be fine. You will stay alive. You must; I—“

The hand that had been stroking your hair gently lowered down to your tear-stained cheek. “No, the doctor told me enough. Hamil—Alexander has always been an excellent shot. Such ability be—belongs to a marksman, truly.”

“You will live, you are going to live,” you half-pleaded, desperate. He shook his head, and his eyes glazed over. You could only imagine the pain he was suffering. 

“I—I’m welcomed on the—on the other side.” His eyes shut. “By your mother. She is smiling.” He was whispering. “What a smile. You ha—have it. Her n—name, too. But it’s my eyes tha—that you inherited.” 

The room was silent after that, save for his ragged breathing and your quiet hiccups. Briefly, you wondered what would become of you, should he not make it. You tried to chase that thought out of your mind, but it ended up lingering anyway, like a denied but inevitable outcome. 

The red on his chest bloomed like roses; roses that are blooming in the garden outside, with their sickly sweet smell tinged with something metallic, like blood.

* * *

He was gone early the next morning. Thomas Jefferson took advantage of his death to political means, and you had never felt more hatred for a person than you did at that moment.

The entirety of New York was buzzing, hustling on every level. They, however, did not mourn, not exactly; Aaron Burr had never been much loved by the public, now more than ever after Alexander Hamilton's denouncement of him just a few months ago. His funeral was small and private. You had requested his cremation yourself. You felt a pang in your chest every time you thought about it. He didn’t even have a will.

Nathalie was back from South Carolina, without her husband. She fumbled with a formal condolence, before dropping it altogether and pulling you into a fierce hug. You let yourself cry into her shoulder. 

His death made it to every newspaper’s front page. As his vice presidency was nearing its end, it would make sense that many viewed this as a tragedy, or worse, a deserving punishment of an insidious politician. Jefferson announced his passing away as “a result of a long-standing Federalist conspiracy”, and made him some sort of a Democratic-Republican martyr. You snorted into your tea at that. As if _that_ man had ever valued your father so much. What a colossal joke.

Journalists after journalists visited your house throughout the weeks after, in the residue heat of July and the following crispy chill courtesy of August, asking all sorts of things, from your political views (“I decline to declare.”) to Alexander Hamilton's apparently publicized correspondence with your father (“I presume his wife, or Mr. Hamilton himself, would have a clearer view on such a private affair.”). You cited Mary Wollstonecraft and your mother as some of the only scholars whom he truly admired, and watch with a detached satisfaction as their faces turned appalled.

You imagined what your father would have said to all of this horrorshow (“I appreciate their vigor and excitement, that’s for certain, but the questions they ask are horrendous.”) and had to contain your giggles in front of a particularly young and eager writer. He seemed scandalised. You had no doubt that this exchange would be a topic over tea and biscuits for the next week or so, but you couldn’t care less.

You numbly faded into the background of it all, and waited until the chaos passes. 

* * *

Once, when you were about seventeen, there was this man—this boy, for he was only four years your senior. His name was Joseph, and he was the son of a wealthy South Carolinian landowner. He was charming; you were enamoured.

Your father, when presented with your courtship, took you aside and told you, quietly,

“I solely intend what is best for you. But happiness, intellectually or emotionally, is something you have to pursue.” He pursed his lips. “See, girl, if you would be happy with this,” he glanced at your suitor, “suitor for the rest of your life, or the next fifteen years at least, for marrying yourself into such a family asks of you enormous responsibility and labour. Do not, however, let your education go to waste.”

You smiled, strained. “Papa, I _do_ adore him dearly. And, if you haven’t noticed, his addition to our family will financially secure us for at least a considerable time, until our income and expenses are better managed. I am no fool. I know sometimes we struggle though it does not seem so, and this is for the greater good, of both you and I.”

There was silence for a moment. Then you realized your attitude, and scrambled to retract, “I’m sorry, I did not—that wasn’t my—”

“No, you are right. This is my fault for spending our funds so carelessly.” He sighed, and the lines around his eyes and mouth deepened, making him look older than he actually was. “But, still, consider my words. Whether you decide to get married or not, I promise to consult you more on our—my—spendings. We can turn this around. I swear you will never have to worry about a livelihood for as long as I am alive.” His gaze softened. “I will be there for you.”

You pondered over his piece of advice for a full month. When Joseph asked for your hand, you turned him down, gently as you could. He was heartbroken, of course, but not as severely as you had feared. You both kept in touch. He went back to South Carolina and got married. You were invited to the ceremony and the reception; you accepted. You toasted to his marriage, and your heart was light.

Your father stopped throwing money out of the window, not that you ever called his actions such a thing. He and you discussed finances and philosophy in his study into late nights and early mornings. Together, you traveled through New York, New Jersey and sometimes even farther to collect old debts and old favors. Life was looking up.

Manhattan gossips called you a spinster. You learned to ignore them. You had a future to pursue alongside your father, after all.

* * *

On your journey of tying up loose ends left behind by your father’s sudden death, a familiar name, one that once showed up on stories about your father’s romantic expeditions, manifested again as a letter delivered to you, an invitation for a cordial visit—by Angelica Schuyler Church.

You met her on a windy day in September. For a woman her age, her looks was sharp, and her tongue even sharper. Fitted snugly in her hectic social schedule during her short stay here in New York, your meeting was expected to be short and professional—until you found yourself, a young woman half her age, welcomed warmly like a friend.

She was genuinely surprised to find that your father had respected her as an intellectual equal. “And he tried to flirt with me back then like he would a mere damsel,” she told you delightedly. “It seems to me that in all the years spent in Britain, I managed to miss everything. Aaron Burr _did_ raise you right.” Her eyes darkened. “Oh, my apologies—I am terribly sorry about what had happened to him.” 

Your throat dried up. You forced yourself to laugh, a small and terrible sound.

“It’s flattering, really, Mrs. Church, that you would hold such high opinions of my father and I. Few do, these days.”

“Please, dear, just call me Angelica. Social etiquettes bore me stiff, I confess. Also, it is rare to find a person my sex that could hold an actual productive conversation like you do.” You blushed at the compliment. “Not that they are any lesser than you and I, of course. They just simply aren’t yet given the chance to grow.” 

To your infinite surprise and delight, Angelica cancelled the rest of her appointments for the day just to converse with you. She was effortlessly quick-witted, armed with a wicked sense of humor and vast knowledge that you are entranced by. She laughed at your absolute disdain of Jefferson, but her expression dimmed when the topic changed to Hamilton.

“Dear, all of us might have or will have felt conflicted about Alexander at some point in our lives, probably,” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. You blinked at the implication of her sentence, the way his— _his_ —name rolled off her tongue like the easiest thing in the world, like it had belonged there all along.

“Has he any rights to pull others into his troubles?” you said, frowning.

Angelica ‘tsk’-ed. “Alexander is his own personal hurricane. He will be his own death—or at least that pen _will_ be, if Eliza don’t know better to just pluck it right out of his hands. God knows what that man will get himself into when left unattended.”

“My father said he talks too much.”

“And Burr too little,” she answered easily. “But he is right. It will be good for Alexander if he just shuts his mouth sometimes.”

“True, but what I mean is,” you huffed, “Mr. Hamilton had no rights to slander my father so. For all I know, they dueled because he insulted father’s integrity and honor, thus preceded his political downfall. Those words killed him.”

Angelica shook her head. “No, Alexander killed him. Alexander had been wrong ever since he decided to stand against Burr because Burr took the Senate seat from my father. But it is Burr who rose to the bait and took it. He was an adult, he went to _war_ and came back with scars to prove. Surely he should have known better, could have known better, but he decided against it.”

“It was entirely unlike him,” you agreed. “Father was always composed in the face of taunts and sneers… but the moment words came to blows, he paid with his life.”

“Seemed like Alexander was his only exception, don’t you think?” Angelica said.

“He was everyone’s exception, more like,” you said. Angelica barked out a laugh that would have been frowned upon by the majority of New York’s upper class. 

“Packed some bite in that tongue, did you? Alright, little miss, you got me there. Would not be the first time I admit I have a soft spot for that man.”

“It is indeed a pity,” you said, “that he was my father’s contemporary instead of mine, or someone else’s. That way, I could have admired him without having my personal feelings involved. He is truly a wonder.”

“Your father was a prodigy too, was he not? Graduating Princeton in two years at 16, climbing up the ranks through the wars, lawyer and Senator, vice-President of the country… Such achievements are not a dime a dozen.”

You sighed. Your chest felt heavy, like lead and sadness. “But future historians will cast him aside for he was a reserved man and he did not let his beliefs and decisions be known. Even now, I can feel it; his name will fade away sooner than any of us could realize. No one will recognize him for what he did and who he is. The only thing he might even be known for will be that he was shot by his friend in a duel caused by a failed election.”

Angelica took your hands in hers. Her eyes were unreadable. “Theodosia, dear, it is up to you whether he will be taken as such a man or not. You are his only legacy.”

* * *

Four months and a millennium after your father passed away, you wandered into his study and immediately regretted.

There were books littering every surface available—Aaron Burr might have appeared as cold, composed and calculating to the public, but his study reflected his entire personality. Organized chaos, you mused. Some chess pieces lay abandoned on his desk. A single quill pen remained perched on the windowsill. 

But what transfixed and terrified you the most was that there was a presence undoubtedly _his_ haunting this very room, as if he would walk in right now and sit down at that dust-gathering chair, pick up a pen to compose a letter, an essay, anything. You had been doing a moderately good job at keeping him from your mind, but right at that moment, you realized the plain truth: you were missing him terribly.

You took a deep breath, just to feel the tears gathering in your eyes. _Chin up_ , Philip Hamilton would have told you with his infuriatingly confident smirk, if this had been years ago when he hadn’t been killed, too—

For the first time in months, you want to scream: at the weight on your shoulder, the ghosts clinging to your steps, or yourself. Possibly all at once.

Pushing down those urges, _because if you cannot control your urges you cannot control yourself_ your father had once taught you, you slowly made your way towards his desk, each step wobbly and shaking. There, you noticed sheets upon sheets of paper, stained with ink, stained with handprints and fingerprints and smudged with his sleepless nights — people said Alexander Hamilton was non-stop, but they didn’t know that Aaron Burr never slept — there lay a stack of letters bound by ribbons and one odd, lying to the side.

You thought of his last moments awake, next to you. His words. _I penned them for him._

To the last of his breaths, Alexander Hamilton had never left his mind. 

You picked up the stack. All of them weighted thick and heavy in your hands, grey dust sticking under your fingernails. On the first envelope, you noticed your father’s thin, neat handwriting. _Aaron Burr, to Hamilton._ You felt sick to your stomach. You let them drop from your hands back to the desk.

Taking a deep breath, you picked up the other, lone letter. The name addressed outside read _Theodosia._ Your vision swam, dizzy.

Your hands shook as they fumbled with the unsealed envelope. It floated down to the floor, discarded, as you held the letter inside. Before your eyes, you could see your father at his desk, lamp illuminating parts of his face, tired eyes determined something fierce. He had been writing the last letter of his life, and he didn’t even know it yet—or did he? Outside, that day’s dawn had been burning, merciless, a new day in the face of an ending life.

_Dear Theodosia—_

You slumped down to the floor, tears threatening to spill, the barely read letter clutched tight in your trembling fingers, crumpled. You could hear your father’s voice, his weak laugh, his coughs, him calling out your name, calling your home when you were just a child playing outside after dark. _It’s my eyes that you inherited._ Had he cried like this too, when your grandparents succumbed to sickness? Had he also cried like you did now, when your mother, your namesake, passed away?

It was almost like you did not even know him at all. So much of him was shrouded in mystery it was ridiculous, except now it wasn’t and you felt horrible, empty, like you had just drank an entire bottle of poison, or liquefied grief.

 _I swear that I’ll be around for you,_ he had once sang to you when you were little, clinging to his hands even when he had tucked you into bed. The lullaby stuck with you for a very long time. You felt hopeless. What happened to that promise, now? 

The letter blurred. _In case I don't make it out alive—_

He didn't. What would become of you?

* * *

_—In case I don’t make it out alive, please do not mourn. I have lived a fulfilling life, albeit not as long as I would have liked to. I would have loved to see you make it far in life, maybe marry and have children, or maybe not. Whatever you will choose in life, I encourage you to pursue it to the fullest. May your eyes only cry tears of joy, and may your mind never be weighted down with terrible thoughts._

_With this peaceful heart, I entrust your life to you. Do with it what you wish. Maybe you will be the first woman, nay, the first_ person _to grow so great they will remember you for all generations to come. Or maybe you could lead a life like your mother, quiet but not silent, a matriarch in her own rights, leaving every single person who ever comes in contact with you breathless and amazed, a comet forever in orbit. Or, maybe you will live it however you wanted to, and I will nevertheless be overwhelmed by your sheer brilliance. Heavens to Theo—how I wish I could watch you so!_

_And as of me—_

* * *

William Peter Van Ness showed up at your doorstep one day, breathless, hat in one hand, package in the other. You took one look at the man and promptly shut the door to his face.

“Hold on, Theodosia! Miss Burr! Wait! This is about your father! The things he left at his office!” He said loudly on the other side. You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaled with an emotion you recognized as resignation, and opened the door again.

Frankly speaking, Van Ness was a mess. For some reasons he hadn’t been wearing his hat, leaving his hair windswept and tangled, dotted with sprinkles of powdery snow, and deep inside some parts of you frowned at this general unpresentable appearance. The rest, however, were intrigued with the hastily wrapped package he was holding in his arm. You folded your arms over your chest, schooling your own expression into something inscrutable.

“Is there something the matter, Mister Van Ness?”

Van Ness was flustered, which was entirely unfamiliar on an adult. “They were cleaning out his office—I can’t believe no-one got around to doing it earlier, such tardiness, my apologies—and there were. Things. I believe you would be the one who is most suitable to receive and decide what to do with them, since if they sat around for another day Jefferson might just take them all and somehow use them to mock both Burr and Hamilton at once. No offence, but that man is so despicable I wouldn’t put it past him.” 

Your expression was one so disgusted it put Van Ness more at ease. He laughed a little as he handed the package over to you. “Here, have this. This is all his papers and old documents we got, dating back to, if I were to hazard a guess, during and shortly after the war, since they are stored at the office and not your home. Maybe you will find something you want in there.”

Right. Another relic of your father. Another step to reconciling with his death, and with him, too. You breathed out, making little clumps of steam in the December cold. Now that you noticed, Van Ness seemed woefully underdressed, like he just got the package and immediately went to your residence without any second thoughts.

For the first time, you realized: Van Ness was only five years your senior. He was still a young man, who was bound to make mistakes and have lapses in judgement, and though he had overseen your father’s doom, he was not to blame for his death. Here was a man who was also someone who led his close friend to a fatal duel, and he held his regrets, too. Everyone did.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. Now, may I invite you in for a hot cup of tea? You sure do seem cold.”

“I would have loved to, but my wife and newborn son—” at which his eyes shone with pure, unadulterated joy that warmed you up, too, “—are waiting at home. Excuse my bad manners, but I will have to return now,” he said. 

You smiled. “Then at least wait here, in the foyer, for a bit. You are most certainly dressed for warmer weathers or heated rooms. I will find you a better winter coat.”

In the end, you lent him not only a coat but also a scarf and a pair of gloves. He thanked you and walked out into the soft, gentle snowfall, and you felt a little bit warmer than you had before.

* * *

Throughout December, you immersed yourself in learning more about your deceased father. He had always been an enigma in life, and even more so in death; though he were an instrumental mentor figure to you, he talked little about himself. Now that he was gone, you found yourself at a loss. Who was he before you, and who was he after? 

The package Van Ness gave you turned out to contain treasures: correspondences of Aaron Burr when he had still been an adolescent of thirteen, his Princeton acceptance, his friendly letters to friends you had never heard of. And then there were his wartime documents, his directions from higher-ups, his notes acquired from fellow informants. You understood that these were only the very few that survived, though you mourned the loss. After all, he couldn’t have afforded to give in to sentimentality, when the cost was his own life and the war’s outcome.

And then—and then there was Jonathan Bellamy, a dead man from decades ago, with words that you blushed at upon first read. You weren’t sure if there had been any affection deeper than this, maybe except your parents, and that said a lot, for in the short ten years of your childhood your father had been the most dedicated and adoring husband anyone had ever known. But that had been the marital bond, and Bellamy’s words of intimacy ran just as deep in his ink and his paper, the way he had crafted every word like an artisan. 

Did all men write like this to their friends, too? Did they feel delight and affection so great, too, that it crushed their heart and sunk their dreams into tenderness? _It rains, my boy, excessively. Does it not drop through your tent?,_ Bellamy had written. What a sentence! You are well acquainted with love letters, the lovesick schoolboy sort you received through your younger years, and the quiet but powerful sort that you often glimpsed in letters your parents had exchanged. But none of them had ever made your heart flutter with admiration, and perhaps jealousy, like this. 

There never had been and never would be a wordsmith of love greater than Jonathan Bellamy.

_Curse on this vile distance between us. I am restless to tell you everything, but uncertainty, whether you would ever hear it, bids me be silent, till in some future happy meeting I may hold you to my bosom, and impart every emotion of my heart._

You suddenly realized, with a shaky breath, that you wanted to know your father’s responses, his feelings, his delight upon receiving such words. Call it what they must, but this was unmistakably love, a love that encompassed all joy and bypassed all boundaries of laws and sexes. For unfathomable reasons, your instincts told you to run away from this piece of paper, this steaming bloody raw heart extracted right from a ribcage thirty years ago and forever immortalized in cursive. 

This surely wasn’t meant for your eyes, of anyone else’s for that matter. The church preached _sodomy is treason against God, sodomy is the temptation of the Devil._ But surely love this pure could not be sin, could it? How was it a crime for a man to love another so dearly it touched your heart and left you breathless, even after all this years?

You carefully folded the letters back again, your heart a hummingbird aflight, alight. This was something you had to protect. No matter how the world contrited against it, this was your father, his lover and his love, and Lord forgive you if you would ever abandon them to the merciless judgements of history.

* * *

January saw you sliding into a cab headed for the Hamilton estate.

Christmas and New Year’s Eve had passed in a blur, as you sit on the carpeted floor of your father’s study and slowly made your way through all of his letters. Granted, it was lonely, spending a holiday in solitude with nothing but a ghost of a great man keeping you company. But Van Ness brought his family to your home for a visit, and you were truly grateful for the sentiment. Nathalie also wrote from South Carolina. There were gifts sent to you from friends. You went to church. Even without your father, life went on, impossible as it might seem.

But Elizabeth Hamilton nee Schuyler herself had written you a letter asking you to _spend some of your precious time to visit our home for a day or two, for we sincerely want to know how you have been doing, would you be so kind to accept this invitation?_ If it hadn’t been for her, you wouldn’t have ever thought of hearing the name of Alexander Hamilton again, much less meeting him face to face. He hadn’t even attended your father’s funeral.

There, however, had been your father’s last words, and a stack of letters untouched on the far corner of his bookcase, because you couldn’t bear to look at it without feeling anger rising up to your throat, threatening to spill. And mad at Hamilton as you were, you cannot ignore that bit of your father’s will without your conscience prodding at you at all hours.

And so here you were, gloved hands folding in your laps all prim and proper, your spine so straight you thought it might just break if you moved even a little. Your entire body was thrumming with anxiety and frustrating anticipation of an unpleasant confrontation. 

The ride was both short and long at once; you jumped in surprise as the carriage came to a stop. You smiled at the driver and tipped him handsomely, and he tipped his hat at you as his horses picked up speed and gradually disappeared from sight.

Greeting you after four knocks at the door was not the familiar face of Mr. or Mrs. Hamilton, but surprisingly, the gentle, dreamy smile of a girl your age. You startled. She only smiled at you more.

“Oh, hello, who are you? I have never seen your face before.”

You had just opened your mouth to reply when a hurried-looking Mrs. Hamilton made her way down the stairs and towards the foyer, a slight upwards quirk to her mouth like she was still hesitant to see you here. “Angie, darling, would you be a dear and let our guest in?” To you, she said, “Greetings, Miss Burr. It must have been a rough trip for you, haven’t it? This is my eldest daughter, Angelica. Angie, this is Theodosia Burr. You two had met before when you were little, but you might not remember.”

In the back of your mind, you saw the faded silhouette of Philip Hamilton stark against the setting sun, his smile a blindingly bright young thing. Digging deeper into your memory, you could faintly recall a little girl, smaller than you, clinging to his coattails, looking up at her older brother with her eyes filled with admiration sparking akin to stardust. 

“Hello, Mrs. Hamilton, Angelica. It was no matter, really. I am grateful to be invited. Please call me Theodosia.”

“Then just call me Eliza, dearie, no need for formalities,” she said. “Follow me, come inside.”

As you followed Eliza into the sitting room, your mind wandered. So here was the now-eldest child of the Hamilton family, once your childhood playmate, now a prisoner of her mind. New Yorkers after Philip’s death had whispered to one another about his sister, who, blinded with grief, had locked herself in her own childhood and swallowed the key. _She was lost forever after her brother’s death,_ they had conspiratorially gossiped, eyes glancing around like predators on a hunt. 

Having been on the receiving end of it all yourself, you had once felt pity for her. Now, standing before a not-quite young woman, not-quite girl, you did not truly know how to make of it.

* * *

Eliza told you over a cheerful dinner that her husband was still away on a trip into town, but should be home by morning. You pretended you did not sigh with relief. 

The Hamilton children were an interesting, if not rowdy bunch, all sharp eyes and bright faces that reminded you of their late older brother. Angelica spared you some of her distracted smiles in between her outlandish, fantastical tales. Alex occasionally glanced at you during dinner, while his younger sister, little Eliza, stared at you more openly with her curious childish eyes. James poked sulkily at his food. William and John bickered over something, while their youngest, Philip, was tended to by his mother. No one really bothered to inquire anything about you, which put you more at ease. 

You had never really had a big family. Growing up, it had just been you and your half-siblings, or at least for a while, until they left home through a number of means that also include the one through which your mother did. Residents of the Burr-Prevost household had dwindled until there were only you and your father left. 

So now, sitting at this table with a caring, tender woman and her seven children, you felt a sense of home that you had almost forgotten. It didn’t matter that this was the family of your father’s once-friend, forever-killer; this warmth was one that you had been longing for, for a mighty long time.

Eliza might have picked up on your melancholy, if her twinkling gaze was any indication. She smiled at you, her eyes crinkling up into half-moons. “Make yourself at home, Theodosia.”

No one had said that to you since your father died. You smiled back, hiding the tears welling up in your eyes.

* * *

You woke up to the pitch black night in the guest bedroom, until your eyes got more used to the darkness and you recognized Angelica Hamilton sitting cross-legged on the windowsill.

Despite being named after Angelica Schuyler Church, Angie did not resemble her aunt much aside from her dazzling beauty that apparently ran in the Schuyler blood. Where Angelica was all sharp edges and cutting words, Angie was gentle smiles and dreamy expressions. Their shared intellect was there, but only if you look hard enough, and people often did not, blindsided by Angie’s kindness that was too much for this world. They called her foolish and naive. You thought her brave and fearless.

She had been looking up at the moon, shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, but as you sit up on your bed, her attention shifted to you in an instant. She grinned at you, all inherited half-moons and starlit face. Your breath caught.

“So you’re awake. Sorry if I woke you up, which I was certain I did not, but only the Lord himself knows, right?” You nodded, feeling a little incredulous. She clapped her hands together. “Alright, now that we are both currently sleepless and lonesome individuals, let’s have a bit of a conversation before you head to sleep again.”

That’s a strange way of concluding one’s observations, you mused, but agreed with her anyway. “Yes, let us talk.”

Angelica stood up from her seat on the windowsill and moved to sit on the edge of your bed, all in one smooth motion. You suddenly missed the way moonlight reflected on her hair just moments before. “Perfect! Then if you do not object, I will be first. You used to know my brother Philip, yes?”

There were no question as to which Philip she was talking of. You swallowed. “That is true.”

Angie cocked her head to the side. “How did you feel about him?”

Truthfully, you had only truly known him during your school days, few as they were, when your mother had been so ill she couldn’t taught you herself and your father so beside himself with worry he couldn’t spare you more than half an hour a day. Philip Hamilton had been a constant fixture in your class then, a friendly and easygoing boy who was beloved by nearly everyone. You had taken an instant liking to him and he to you, leaving behind one of the fiercest and brightest friendships on this side of the continent, with such an impact on your childhood it remained with you after all this time. 

In your memories, Philip Hamilton was always glowing, backlit figure carving a pocket of darkness into a burning afternoon sky. That was his poetic brilliance, his literary genius, his golden mind and golden heart. Even now, you still sometimes dreamed of him in flashes and bursts of light, something so ethereal it was almost like he had been only imaginary.

But you were sure he was real. After all, a mere illusion could never leave behind such a crater on this heart.

You told Angie that much. She was quiet for a moment, then nodded with determination.

“True, my brother was so bright, no one that I knew could catch up with him. He had always been leaps and bounds ahead of us. But, consider this also: he was also the most trustworthy and loyal person I had ever met. He helped ‘Ma raise all six of us when Pop was not available, sans little Phil; and he was always there for you, was he not?” Her smile was sad, though its brightness did not dim a bit. “He was too kind for this world.”

 _You are too kind for this world, too,_ you wanted to say, but did not in the end. “He was.”

Angie swung both of her legs on the bed, and now you were facing each other. “Tell me about your father, Theo,” she said, half an invitation.

There were no words in your vocabulary at the moment that could be used to describe the man that was Aaron Burr. You shook your head. “Maybe some other time, through letters. For now, I think it would suffice to say that he was possibly one of the greatest visionaries of his own generation.”

“You miss him, do you not?”

You could feel your heart hammering away. “I do.”

Angie smiled sadly and pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them, both of her arms hugging her legs. “I do also miss my brother. Sometimes I could feel his presence around me, largely in the dead of night when I am alone. I remember when we were kids, you know? You never really noticed me then. It had always been you and my brother. You and him both, you were the people whom I admired the most.”

“Thank you,” you said, unsure what to say in return.

Angie nodded and stood up, her face a brilliant moon in the darkness of your room, mirroring the one buried in the clouds. “Now then, I will not bother you any longer. Little Eliza must have noticed my absence by now. Good night, Theo.”

Halfway out of the room, she turned back, hand still on the door handle. “I know you still dream of him at times. I do, too. But between the two of us, we both know we ought to keep marching onwards. I wish you the best on your journey. This must sound silly for you will not be leaving until tomorrow, but write often, won’t you? Those who are lost will often never be found, but look; we have already found each other.”

The door closed. The sound of Angie’s footsteps slowly faded into the white noise of quietness, but it couldn’t put a stop to your stuttering heartbeats, nor calm your racing mind.

* * *

On the next day, you sat down in the Hamilton estate’s sitting room, in front of you Alexander Hamilton, home at last, and his wife next to him, a steadfast presence not unlike an anchor. You sat in silence for a long while, with awkwardness and a million other emotions hung all over the ceilings like a vile sort of post-Christmas mistletoe.

Hamilton was the first to give in.

“It must have been hard on you, those past six months,” he said. 

_No thanks to you,_ you thought, with venom. “Not too much, thank you. I confess, there had been those who showed sympathy, which I deeply appreciated.”

Hamilton showed visible discomfort. “Regarding that, well—I apologize for having never truly faced you after it happened. I did not show up at the funeral, though if I did that would have been callous of me, but I made no attempts at amends, either. The trials… they fell through. I was not charged.” The frown lines around his mouth and bird’s footprints at the corner of his eyes tightened. “I hope you understand, Miss Burr, but though my political career has been destroyed long ago, I still have my family to support. Thus, I am grateful to be a free man, and an alive man.”

 _But what about Papa?_ “We can agree that the duel was childish and a horrible decision to which both parties had agreed.”

“The duel was an affair of honor.”

“Sir, you denounced him in front of an entire party. He had already been dragged under by Jefferson and his administration by then. Is that, too, an act of honor?”

“I made no such remarks.”

“Yet you did not seem to have refuted that yourself, either.”

“There were no specifics that I could confirm or deny.”

“A simple _yes_ or _no_ would have sufficed, sir. The lack of one got my father killed.” _By you, no less,_ was words you did not speak, but it hung in the air anyway.

“But he was the one who proposed the duel,” Hamilton argued.

“Alex—” Eliza began to say, but you cut her off.

“And you could have prevented it by saying ‘no’.”

“And consequently abandoning my honor?” he frowned. “Now you are being presumptuous. What could have prove that my refusal to a duel would lead to a solution?”

“Alexander, st—”

“There are no proofs, but at least no one would have had to die.”

Yet again silence befell. Hamilton sighed tiredly.

“Nonetheless,” he said, “with thirty years of unresolved rivalry and unacknowledged disagreements, we had reached a point of no return. It was either me or him.”

You felt angry. “It could have been none, if one of you had just stopped thinking with your ego for once. Why _did_ you have to add fuel to the fire, rather than extinguishing it?”

“Burr was a despicable man with no morals. All he ever cared about was what would profit himself. He desired no redemption, and that made him incorrigible.”

“And pray tell,” you said dryly, “how would my father’s scoundrel attributes even amount the least bit to your abandonment of your wife and children, had you been killed in the duel?”

Next to Hamilton, Eliza was looking down at her lap, her hands clasping tight together. You and he seemed to realize this at the exact same time, because he broke eye contact at once and immediately turned to comfort her. You sat there, feeling hollow and exhausted.

Hamilton looked to you, his expression stone cold, and there was something in his eyes that scared and angered at once. “Past disputes and present disagreements aside, what had led you to accept our invitation? Betsey and I both agreed that you would turn us down, but you took up on the offer instead.”

“Because I have something to give to you.”

“I hope that something will not include a muzzle to my head,” he half-joked. Eliza glared at him.

“No,” you said, “but that something would be letters. From Papa. To you.”

For the first time, Hamilton made no remarks nor rebuttals, instead opting for complete, startled silence.

You decided to press on. “He left me several letters, stating that they were for you. I had examined them, and they were all in pristine condition, seals unbroken, and from that I would conclude that they had never been delivered, or rather, had never left my father’s study. Whether you want it or not, I will hereby entrust them to you, whom they were originally meant for. Read them or leave them, I have no way to force you nor do I want to, but please respect a dead man’s last wish. Knowing my father, this must have been things he had wanted to say, or should have said, but his nature had not allowed him to.”

“So, what you mean is, this could have been avoided, had he more eloquent and me less abrasive?” Hamilton asked. Eliza put one hand on his shoulder, her face paling a little, too.

“No. I meant what I said earlier: had both of you seen past your egos, this outcome could have been circumvented,” you snapped. “Do you value life, Mr. Hamilton? My father could have lived, and you wouldn’t have had to face death again.”

He said, “I was a fool.” No one said anything after that for a long moment, while Hamilton bowed down and put his face in his hands. You could see sweats breaking out over his greying temples, and the sitting room was too warm and suffocating even though this was only January. The only sound discernible was the crackling of burning coals.

It was you who broke the quiet, this time. 

“Those are for you.” You put the letters you brought with you on the table. His gaze followed your movement, and remained fixed on it.

“You have my gratitude,” he said. 

You nodded. “And here is for us to understand: I will not forgive you for what you had done. Whatever miscommunication and denial went down, it had killed a man.” 

“That I agree.”

This was surprisingly agreeable of a man that just minutes ago had denied his alleged accusations that led to your father’s death. You felt your voice going soft. “But, sir, I ask you not to wallow, either. That had also been my Papa at fault. You and I, we both understand how stubborn he could get. Consider this my offer at peace; a truce, if you will. Let us not be wary of each other any longer.”

Hamilton catched your extending hand in one sturdy motion. His palm was moist, but his grip firm. “I thank you for it, Miss Burr. I am honored to accept this truce. And,” he took in a breath and in your peripheral vision you could see Eliza’s hand on his shoulder clenching tighter, “I apologize for your grief. On his behalf, and I too, I am sorry our feud took your father away from you. Lord almighty forgive us.”

Your throat was parched dry. You could only weakly nod, as Hamilton managed a tiny, shaky smile, and you thought of how proud your father would be of you right now, making truce with his rival, a tentative reconciliation after decades of growing further and further apart.

* * *

_Dear Theodosia,_

_I am writing you these words as soon as you left, as it is predicted that another snowstorm is coming and I would not risk having my letter delivered late, or worse, not delivered at all. Pop has already locked himself inside the study, and I am almost certain he will not come out until all his letters has been read at least twice over. I am surprised at how readily he was to get over this grudge, especially when taking into consideration his other previous ones. But after all, it was you who had personally come to him. It is impossible to deny you anything. Have you ever heard yourself talking? You were persuasive, pulling everyone along. But I digress; that would be left to another time, when we do not have more important matters at hand._

_How have you been doing, at least until the moment you read this letter? ‘Ma was worried out of her mind about your state of mind, but I assured her you are just alright. You are strong and I know you would never let yourself delve into anything for too long. Please prove to me, and therefore my ‘Ma, that you are safe and sound in your home, and nothing, no sadness nor morose, is plaguing your mind. Hearing that would grant me immense joy._

_Whatever residue animosity between your father and mine, or you and Pop, I hope they have been resolved, or at least been decided to be resolved. Much as I love him, his duel with Colonel Burr had impacted my family in unthinkable ways. Ever since the Reynolds Pamphlets, I had never personally seen ‘Ma so stricken. She is a wonderful woman, and at times I find myself sneaking a thought, that maybe Pop does not deserve her, after all. All his political pursuits and his love of his own words have brought her grief, not that she ever let it show near him. I am grateful that she confessed some of her burden in me and Philip from time to time, and now in little Alex, too._

_And because I did not have the chance to say this, I truly appreciate that you had shared with me your thoughts and memories of Philip. I know some people would say I am delusional, holding on to a dead man, but that is the only way I know how to carry on his legacy, little as it is. After all, he had only been nineteen years of age, even younger than me now, and he would have been a great man, if it hadn't been for his death. But you, your father_ was _a great man, was he not? What he left behind would potentially be much more than my brother’s, worthy of being called a legacy, and a great one at that. Would you, have you ever thought if you want him to live on? I understand if you yearn to bid his ghost farewell altogether. But if you do not, what would you do?_

_Alas, this letter is getting long. I would not occupy your time any longer, much as I want to say more, for this heart and mind still hold such feelings that I desire to shout out loud for you to hear despite this distance. But that would wait, too, for another time that I hope will not be far, so that I can take your hand and tell you everything I am currently holding in, to look forward to a reunion most joyful and wondrous._

_I look forward to your response; please do write me back as soon as possible._

_Your dearest_

_Angelica Hamilton._

* * *

Throughout February and March, Angie wrote you frequently, and you religiously responded every time, with more and more affection. Van Ness, who insisted to be called William and was growing to be a permanent fixture in your home every other two days, sorting out your father’s belongings and your future financial plans, jokingly called it a courtship. You swatted at his arm, but did not deny it either.

Between you and William, you went through your father’s writings in the span of mere weeks. A large part of them were just ordinary journals, but in letters with you mother and in other documents, there were musings and proposals on the rights of women. William was surprised at first, but upon further discussion, with your education being the foremost example for the argument, he conceded that they held true. 

But then there were things that were hard to say out loud. Namely: one deceased Continental soldier who had been haunting your dreams ever since you laid eyes on those letters, which were at the moment locked away in your own study, safe. Reluctantly, you approached William during one of your meetings, with a question brandished like a double-edged blade.

“Have you ever heard of Jonathan Bellamy?”

William stopped short in the middle of rifling through the assorted collection of Burr-Jefferson correspondence during their term. “I have, actually. What of him?”

“You do?” Surprise washed through you, and then dread followed fast on its heels. “What do you know of him?”

“Why does this sound like an interrogation?”

“Because it is very much one. Tell me, won’t you?”

“Is there any particular reason to inquire about a dead man, missy?”

You held your breath. “He was an acquaintance of Papa. I have every reason to, if we are both working towards granting his soul its deserved peace.”

William did not say anything. The two of you looked at each other in pure anxious anticipation. It was almost like—

“You already know,” you said in a bemused tone. William looked almost relieved, shrugging helplessly. 

“I couldn’t say it. How would I know you would not react poorly?”

You raised an eyebrow. William winced. 

“That was in bad taste. I apologize,” he said.

“No,” you sighed. An air of tiredness befell the room. “I am sorry, too. It was to protect him. I have to confess, I was… also hesitant, to say the least.”

William eyed you, then smiled, and said, “We are too protective of him, truly.”

“But that—” and you both know the meaning of _that,_ even if it would never be said out loud, “—was not his fault, nor Bellamy’s,” you argued.

The sun, unseasonably cheerful, made its afternoon appearance known through half-drawn curtains. William put one hand up to his eyes to shield out the light; the crease between his furrowed brows, drawn tight in anxiety, smoothed out to give way to laughter lines under his eyes. 

“It was not,” he agreed. “No sin nor crime, either. Love is love, and it may be blind, but from it too come joy and liberation, and that is hardly anything terrible. May God help us all.”

* * *

It was one particularly stuffy April night that you woke up in your bed in the middle of the night, sleep forgotten and one half-formed idea burning in mind. 

You immediately set to your desk, shuffling things away in search for paper and pen, your father’s ghost a lingering presence, haunting but not too overbearing; it almost felt like you were seven and he was standing behind your chair next to the dining table, watching you working your way through arithmetical problems in a little notebook. Except now it was no longer rudimentary additions and multiplications. It is now a million words in your head, ten itching fingers, and one burning, terrible urge to write.

In his absence, or at least the corporeal form of it, you have picked up a few realizations of your own. Hamilton accused your father of only having personal gains as his motive for political pursuits, with neither beliefs nor convictions. Whether or not it had been true, you understood this much: all that he, or Hamilton, had done, ultimately was just struggles not to let themselves be drowned in history’s narratives. 

Undeniably, you wanted your father to live on. He deserved as much, after a life ended bitterly without having accomplished nor acknowledged for anything significant; cast to the side in favor of bolder, more bolterous men. Maybe it had been his own fault. Maybe it had not. Either way, with most people from whom you needed the answer now dead, it no longer mattered as much.

Angie had told you to preserve your father’s legacy, because she, too, kept what remained of Philip with her. Except you did not want to follow her footsteps, forever in a half-lucid state of mourning, lost to the world except those who know her the most. You did not want to spend your life only being the late Aaron Burr Jr.’s daughter. You, selfishly, wanted to be known as _Theodosia Burr,_ too. 

You, like many others, desired to have your name written down after your death, spoken by people who would come to know you for the things you have done. Your name on book covers and paper pages, printed out in graphite, in ink, in shorthand, in longhand, with the childish admiration of schoolchildren, or the quiet respect of academics.

In the end, what stood in common between you and your Papa—and Hamilton, too—was that you both wanted to have control over your own fate, instead of surrendering it to the mercy of time.

And so, you conjured up your father’s phantom. You smiled at him for the first time these past few months, thought of his words, and set pen to paper.

* * *

“So, a book, huh?” said William one Saturday when he stopped by your house to check up on you. 

You grinned rather unladylike, feeling both embarrassment and bravery rushing to your cheeks. “There had just been the barest outline and the rough beginning, but yes. I am indeed writing a book.”

He let out a huffed breath. “I figured as much. There is no way you would only leave Burr’s writings there anyway. Someone will have to publicize them, sooner or later.”

“About this—” you said, then stopped yourself short. William glanced at you, intrigued.

“No, continue, missy. What is it that you seem to want to tell me?”

“Ah. It is just that… I will be publishing this as a seperate work, under my own name.” Suddenly emboldened, you added, “This will be a work on the rights of women.”

His eyebrows shot up, his gaze incredulous, but he kept his quiet. You nervously continued. “Most of the writings from Papa that I plan to use aren’t yet completed enough on their own to be published as they are, and there are things I want to reexamine and adjust. They will be used as the basis for my own theories, and Papa’s name will be cited. You don’t have to worry. I am not stealing from a dead man.”

“What prompted this inspiration?”

“I am not entirely sure,” you said. “Maybe it is the desire to see Papa’s visions unfold. Maybe it is because I want all women to have the chances he gave me to grow. Whatever the reason, this will be my first step to conquer this world and all its prejudices.”

He waited for a moment to pass before asking, “Would your father approve of this?”

You smiled despite yourself. “He would definitely want me to do it. All he wanted was for me to find my own destiny, and this is it and I am sticking to it. Also, after all, the book is mine. What is wrong with taking inspiration from a man that great?”

“Even if said great man has made many mistakes in his lifetime?”

“All his mistakes made him great in my eyes. He shaped his own fate.” You closed your eyes. “I want that too. My own fate, that is. All that I have done and I will ever do… I want to be heard.”

* * *

_And as of me, I do not desire much more than your understanding and respect of my decisions regarding this upcoming duel. If you are reading this letter, now, please know that my mind had been made to the last of my breaths, and I regret not an ounce of it. All my choices had created me as I am now, and I am proud to say whatever the outcome, I am the consequence of my own actions. I am the only thing I myself am in complete control of. Whether I wait or I seize, no person can decide it but me. I am inimitable. I am me._

_That being said, Hamilton would certainly berate me of my negligence to think of my own legacy. Alas, I have done little and achieved even less compared to my contemporaries, so it is unthinkable that my legacy would carry on as far as I would ever hope. At this point, it no longer bothers me if my name would be spoken post-mortem with any emotion other than mockery and ridicule._

_But if it is you, I pray to God and the soul of my parents, that I will not fade from your mind. May I never be a burden to drag you down, may my name never taint yours—but may it not be forgotten, either. Every man wishes for his name to remain on this world for as long as it can after his death; however my world is you, and o world, please do not exile me from your memory._

_It is almost impossible that I had the honor to call someone as brilliant as you my daughter. It knocks the breath out of my lung, dreaming of me being a part of you, the future of this country. Whatever your world might be, take it by storm._

_Your dearest father and your most loyal friend,_

_A. Burr._

**Author's Note:**

> ah, the culmination of two (three?) years of hamilton being a part of my life.
> 
> I really like aaron burr as a character and his unexplored backgrounds are often ignored, so a two-year younger me decided to try to bring him justice. several failed pieces of writing later, I realized: the problem was that no narratives available ever really saw him in a favored light, let alone defended or explored him enough to base my characterization on. then I found out about theo and this idea was born
> 
> about theo: she is only mentioned in passing during the musical, despite having a song dedicated to her and named after her which is btw the cutest song in the whole album; which is a shame because as we all know she would absolutely have hit it off with philip and they could have been adorable. but the musical is only two and a half hour long and no one can really have everything that they want and so I had to settle for the next best thing: writing a theo of my own
> 
> so during that two years, I also managed to watch hamilton (a bootleg because I live half the globe away from new york, literally), scraped half the fic and rewrote it, changed the ending twice, and talked about it to exactly no one from the fandom. I did all of that because as I went, I understood my own interpretation of theo more. to compare her with eliza, who is an actual goddess: eliza carried on hamilton's legacy, while theo made her own from what her father left her, thus creating a legacy for him as well. in other words: in eliza's case she told hamilton's story and was remembered for it. in theo. burr's case (and we all know she would sign her works and letters like that), she wanted to make her own name.
> 
> and she did! in this universe i imagine the future of america would either be mostly the same or vastly different, since hamilton survived, and despite his words we all know he would end up involved in politics one way or another. either way, one thing to be sure: theodosia burr would singlehandedly change the entire course of 19th century feminism history, because she was brilliant like that. she had a social standing, charm, wit, and hamilton by her side, though it would take much effort from both sides to reach mutual understanding. she would blow us all away if given the chance. this is her chance.
> 
> the fic was also the journey for her to find out what she wanted all along. notice how theo just decided to fade into the background in the middle of the chaos created by aaron burr's death, and gradually got more active in her decisions regarding her father and herself, until the end when she decided to go all fuck it, i will be heard. she grew into both being a burr and being a theodosia. therefore, this story could be also considered a coming-of-age thing, though I don't really know if it's short timespan (8-9 months?) disqualifies it from being one.
> 
> (also theoangie was pre-slash in the fic because I cannot resist it)
> 
> anyway, this had been a ride from start to finish for me. reading through it you might notice some inconsistency in writing styles, because I wrote this in the course of two years and took a lot of breaks from it for personal reasons. feel free to point out any mistakes left or where it sounds really weird, because I'm not a native speaker and also don't have a beta. 
> 
> if you made it here and read everything from my words vomit, you are an angel. let me envelop you in the world's most tender hug. 
> 
> happy new year!
> 
> hmu on twiiter @gorgonlovebot


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